Chained Heat
by Veltrops
Summary: AU, human Thresh - Two can play at the game of manipulation, and when the warden and the sheriff start to pull at each other's strings, they inevitably end up entangled. Thresh/Caitlyn.


Yes, I know, it's a crack ship, but I do legitimately like it. I prefer normal Thresh to human Thresh for the pairing, but the problem with writing normal Thresh is that he can't express emotion through facial expressions (not that he necessarily would, since raising someone as undead doesn't necessitate retaining the entire personality, although it doesn't seem that way).

A quick note about the judicial system in this 'universe' - the justice system is split into 3 branches; the police, the courts, and the prisons. Caitlyn, the sheriff, heads the police branch, while Thresh, the warden, heads the prison branch. As such, he is roughly equivalent to her in authority; however, they are both subject to requests from the courts, of which the head isn't really important to the story. However, the three branches are unofficially assorted into a sub hierarchy of courts police prisons due to internal views.

* * *

When Caitlyn was called in to interview the new warden, she wasn't necessarily expecting them to be completely normal. It wasn't the most emotionally taxing job out there, but there was only a certain level of verbal abuse one could take from bitter inmates. That was just in the nature of the job. The other prison staff could handle a few eccentricities.

But she wasn't expecting the warden to be dressed in some sort of dark green and incredibly bizarre outfit with a rather inappropriately low neckline. He had barely entered the room when she had asked - perhaps a little forcefully - why he wasn't wearing the proper uniform.

All it took was a slow once-over with a raised eyebrow and a predatory grin for her to flush at her hypocrisy and regret asking. She wasn't wearing the proper uniform either, but she was the sheriff and she could wear what she damn wanted. In the end, though, she bit down on that thought, as there was no possible way to say that without sounding childish.

Gracefully breezing over her welcome, he introduced himself as Thresh, a warden who had transferred from the Shadow Isles. Whatever his reasons for moving were, he didn't mention them, and she decided that for his politeness she could at the very least leave him with whatever privacy he wished.

For now, anyway. Her knowledge - or, indeed, the general knowledge - of the Shadow Isles was limited at best, but from the rumours that circulated, the denizens of them meant nothing good. It was no secret that the undead reigned supreme there, although, reassuringly, the man sitting across from her seemed to be very much alive. It was enough to temporarily allay her concerns, at least until she had the opportunity to dig out some useful information.

Making a note to investigate the Shadow Isles later, she nodded and progressed with the interview. His answers were smooth, concise, and - predictably - revealed absolutely nothing about him. It didn't bother her, though; stock questions, stock answers. They were only there to fill in time whilst she formed a first impression.

She looked over the documents she had been provided with as he studied her with a calculating leer. His past records were an absolute mystery; no breakouts, no riots, no complaints, no disobedience. Nothing. His recommendation was completely and unnaturally spotless. Curious, and a little suspicious, although it did explain why he was being nominated as warden rather than promoting any of the existing staff.

It was too good to be true, even; she had worked with a number of wardens from each city-state, and knew that many of them would drop everything to recruit a warden of his supposed caliber. And here he was, just days after the old warden announced his resignation. Luck, perhaps - but was it good luck, or bad?

It felt like a risk; there was something off about him, like an omen of impending doom. He was as much of an enigma as his home islands; a man of too many questions, and none of which he seemed to be inclined to answer. But her hands were tied; she couldn't turn down a candidate such as him based solely on gut instinct. He was everything one needed in a warden, and more; he seemed to be almost dangerously intelligent, and his sinister grin spoke of ruthlessness.

In other words, capable of handling even the most disobedient prisoners.

Shuffling her papers, Caitlyn carefully looked over the warden one last time. Vile, toxic green eyes stared straight back at her, and after a moment, she offered him her hand.

He accepted her handshake with a cold, vice-like grip.

* * *

It took nearly two and a half months before she found the time to see how he had settled into the prison.

Admittedly, it was bad form that it had taken her so long to visit him again, but she had been busy chasing up loose ends from a smuggling ring she had broken into not too long ago. Organised crime was a massive headache at best, and she had not been afforded the luxury of a proper break in a very long time.

In the end, though, it was the nagging feeling of shame that persuaded her to come along with the last shipment of prisoners, even though she would have preferred to go home and have a long, well deserved sleep.

Stifling a yawn, she was quickly waved through the security at the entrance. The prison itself was an intimidating structure, with white walls and harsh lights that gave it a nearly decrepit presence. It stretched outwards in disjointed blocks, a futile effort to accommodate the recent influx of prisoners. Inside, the halls were narrow and shadow stained, as the cells rattled with the cacophony of the restless inmates. In short, it was a claustrophobe's nightmare; space was a luxury they could not afford.

Striding quickly through the halls, she noted the distant but highly distinct sound of the chains scraping against the floor as she glanced inside the cells of the curiously placated prisoners. Not even one sexist slur; perhaps the flawless reports were not whimsical after all. Even though it was a welcome change, the silence was admittedly rather unnerving.

Following the clinking of the chains, she found him soon enough, seemingly having caught him in the middle of his rounds. He turned around at the sound of her steps and she hazily remembered him; poisonous green eyes, braided black hair and unblemished pale skin. It was not the attractive kind of pale either, but a sickly, albino white which looked as if he would shrivel up or instantaneously contract skin cancer if he was exposed to the sun.

He offered her a cruel grin, making a mocking remark about being forgotten. She gave him a disproving frown - it was disrespectful to be so casual with her, but she was still quick to reply that he never visited.

Surprise flickered across his face before he laughed, an insane peal which reverberated unpleasantly in her ears and echoed down the silent halls. Ducking his head slightly, he smirked coquettishly and suggested that they retire to his office.

On guard, and rather affronted at his forwardness, she tactically trailed behind him as he led her down the silent hall. He had a tall, heavy build under a pair of gauntlets, sabatons, and a strange overcoat lined with bone-like chains. It looked heavy and was probably rather impractical, but there was an almost fantastical element of intimidation under the harsh lights of the prison.

It was enough to sow the seeds of doubt.

Withdrawing a key ring that held 3 bafflingly primitive keys, he unlocked the door to what had been his office for the past couple of months. The change of locks did not escape her notice, but she decided not to pursue the issue; from what she could tell, the warden had a quick tongue and in her fatigued state she was unlikely to be able to corner him.

He pulled open the door and gestured for her to enter first, a bewildering act of chivalry in light of his disregard for her rank.

Stepping inside the office, she was reluctantly pleased to find that it was organised in an almost minimalistic way, if not for the occasional personal item scattered around; a couple of worn books, a steaming kettle of water, a small coat rack and a large stack of chains coiled along the wall.

The office itself was a dark, icy grey, lit up with the same harsh lights as the rest of the prison. It was, possibly, a modified cell; it was just about as welcoming as one. She wondered how he managed to entertain himself throughout the day - there was nothing in his office, but surely there was more to it that endlessly patrolling the corridors.

She silently sat down across from his desk as he moved to the back of the room to prepare drinks, choosing to carefully observe the warden's broad back. However, he shared no such inclination.

Did you come all this way just to see me, Sheriff? How touching.

She could hear the insidious smirk in his voice, and he spoke her title as if it were an insult. The sheriff didn't rise to his mockery, however; instead, she crossed her legs and raised an eyebrow.

I merely came to see how you were settling in. It looks like it's going well.

She decided not to mention that, given the time frame and prison population, the level of obedience he had managed to instill across the inmates was rather astounding. What she had seen of his condescending attitude was particularly irksome and the last thing she felt like doing was to pay him compliments.

Oh yes, he laughed again, the filthy maggots were quick to fall in line.

They are not maggots, Warden.

He turned his head just far enough to analyse her out of the corner of his eye.

Is that so?

The warden turned back around, drinks in hand: tea for her, and coffee for himself. His gaze slid down to her legs, the full curve of her thighs exposed to him by the manner she was sitting in.

Reaching forwards to accept the hot beverage from him, she surreptitiously uncrossed her legs and made a mental note to wear a longer skirt next time she visited, preferably as far in the future as possible.

She gave him an irritated look, but if the vicious smirk was anything to go by, he seemed to take more pleasure out of making her uncomfortable than the actual view. She briefly wondered whether that made it less or more creepy.

Sipping the - grudgingly - well brewed tea and pointedly ignoring the warden's wandering eyes, her own gaze fell on the stacks of chains neatly ordered against the wall. Each coil must have been over one hundred metres long, perhaps longer; there was enough to shackle up the entire prison.

Her purple eyes flicked back to the warden.

Is there any reason you have so many chains?

Chains are beautiful instruments, Sheriff. His voice was sly.

They can be used to inflict all sorts of pain... or pleasure. Would you like me to show you?

She let an unbridled scowl cross her lips at the pass, and in no small part because she was momentarily intrigued; she, too, had a personal inclination to using chains, mostly to the dismay of her partners. Sharing an intimate interest with the warden was a decidedly unpleasant notion.

My, my... He tilted his head coyly. Just what sort of nerve have I hit, Sheriff?

Keep your imagination to yourself, Warden.

Hm. If you insist.

She retreated behind her teacup, allowing her mind to turn over as he swirled his own cup, absently allowing the coffee to come dangerously close to spilling over the edge. Her suspicions had taken root, but she had, as of yet, no hard evidence that his intentions were anywhere as dark as she assumed them to be; the best she had was circumstantial, if not downright speculative. She had no reliable source, either; the Shadow Isles were only spoken of in rumours and the warden himself was a closed book.

That was what she disliked the most about him. She preferred dealing with absolutes; concepts which could be applied indiscriminately, or people whose agendas she could read completely. He was a cold case, a riddle which was, under the circumstances, unsolvable. She needed more information; she knew better than most that knowledge is power.

His expression had shifted to one of contented amusement, staring straight back into her analytical gaze. His posture was relaxed, but straight; his coat stretched softly over his exposed chest as he breathed, and she began to suspect that he was deliberately trying to distract her. Just who was he?

An enigma, indeed.

* * *

I'm fairly inexperienced writing wise, so I think instead of creepy/psycho he came out pretty normal, if not kind of pervy. Oh well.


End file.
